


Can't Help Falling in Love

by captainodonewithyou



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, literally just pure fluff, that is all that this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 08:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4780019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainodonewithyou/pseuds/captainodonewithyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Lincoln really likes Elvis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Help Falling in Love

He likes Elvis and is utterly _ridiculous_ about it.

Seriously—the first time he invites Skye back to his apartment (or rather, she does—but it’s a different story for a different time and really, it isn’t her fault that they are in Cincinnati and it is pouring rain and his place has to be somewhere nearby)—she bustles shivering and dripping through the door he unlocks and kicks open, beneath his the leather jacket he’d draped round her shoulders that now has got to be triple her weight—the first thing to catch her eye and draw her in is the turntable.  

It’s perched precariously on a couple of boxes, piled up into a table and shoved full of a very generous collection of records.  

“Oh my god, Lincoln, you _nerd_.”

She doesn’t have to look at him to know his cheeks are burning red, but smiles over her shoulder as she shimmies out of the jacket and steps out of her shoes simultaneously.  He catches the leather as it slips off her arms, blindly shoving it onto a wall hook behind him as a quiet sorta smile plays at his lips and makes her heart flutter.

She turns back away from him, letting herself further into the sparsely furnished room, taking in the machine more fully and ignoring the chilly hardwood beneath her bare feet.  It is old, certainly, but take care of.  Rust stains carefully treated, only the thinnest coat of dust due to absence.  She smiles in spite of herself, ducking down to run a finger along the records boxed in beneath it, skimming the titles carefully.

She hears him coming up softly behind her.

“It’s all Elvis,” she notes, looking up at him and smirking in spite of herself.  Her hair is wet, dripping unapologetically down her back—and when he reaches to gently thumb a stray soaked lock back behind her hair, it’s entirely due to the chill that’s set into her skin that she shivers.

His thumb lingers against her jaw.

(They’ve touched like this before—hesitant lingering and soft looks and loud longing—but she has never wanted to drag him to her lips as much as she does in this moment).

The spell breaks and he draws back, reaching to rub nervously where the blush is coming back to his ears.

“My mom had a serious thing for him,” he laughs uneasily and she straightens, interest piqued—not used to hearing about his past.  “when I was a kid, these records are all that ever played in my house.  Couldn’t stomach getting rid of them, you know?”

She doesn’t, not really.  But she nods encouragingly anyway, offering a gentler smile that he returns—but he doesn’t add anything else.

She glances again at the collection of vinyl, arranged so meticulously, and catches his movement closer to the machine out of the corner of her eyes—watching the fingers that had so gently brushed along her jaw moments earlier move with the same softness across the layer of dust she’d noted earlier, clearing it carefully away.

“Which is your favorite?”

She motions at the records as she says it, even though she’s certain it’s implied.

He doesn’t answer except with a slight smile, running his fingers along the rows and stopping almost subconsciously on a blue tinted slip, tugging it gently from the rest and cautiously revealing the record from within it.  She watches transfixed as he finishes dusting off the machine and perches the disk on the turntable with such practiced, certain motions—till the needle is perched and a soft tune is starting up from the speakers.

He watches her with nervous expectancy as the song picks up; eyes wide and tuned to her, wet hair somehow still stuck up in all directions.

She gets then why he’d brushed through her hair—she itches to reach out and mess his darkened blonde waves further—but she fists her fingers into the damp fabric of her shirt instead.

“It sounds like a diner at midnight,” she tells him, because it does, and because the silence is charging and electrifying and burning the longer they let it sit.

(When she blinks, she sees a dark, curly haired woman with pristine red lips and a polka-dot dress leaning up against the bar and grinning at a dapper fellow in a dark blue suit.  It makes her smile).

“A diner?”  

He says it through a laugh, and she lets go of her shirt, reaching to shove at his chest.  He’s faster, though, still laughing as he catches her wrists, holding on as he glances at the ground between them, biting back the chuckling that is clearly still rising in his throat, before smirking at her past his still lowered brow.

“Jerk,” she informs him, and his smirk only grows.

She is acutely aware of his fingers still looped gently round her wrists and her nails still dug gently into the damp burgundy of his shirt over his chest.  She is aware of the shift of his hold on her and the shift in the speeding race of his heart beneath her hands.  She is aware of how she slips a breath nearer to him and she is aware of the way his entire expression slips so subtly softer.

“In the diner they’re dancing,” she tells him in a faux-secretive tone, and he smirks this time—but doesn’t laugh.

Instead, he slips his fingers along her wrists then her palms, tangling them into hers and startling her when he steps back, tugging her softly forward with him.

“Like this?” He asks, still smirking, with an exaggerated wiggle of his brows.  

A laugh rises in her throat and the challenge eats at her.

“Hm mm,” she shakes her head, turning the laughter into a mischievous smirk and taking the moment to catch _him_ off guard, tightening her fingers in his and stepping boldly forward, leaving only a breath between them.  She stares up at him, watching his expression shift again—lips parted and eyes glued to her.  

She moves one of her hands, guiding his to her hip and detangling them to clutch at his shoulder.

“More like this.”

She feels the deep inhale he takes and when his fingers finally respond, pressing into her waist, she echoes the breath.

The silliness is gone and the silence is gaining charge again as they sway to the slowing song and sway nearer to each other—and she’s aware of their matching movements but not purposely pressing closer and closer to him.  Aware of how his fingers slip round to the small of her back and aware of how their hands tighten against each other and aware of her finger slipping round the back of his neck as their bodies come together.

She is aware of how his eyes keep that clouded yet focused hold on hers and aware of how all of a sudden, she _isn’t_ aware of anything but the places where their bodies touch.

She is aware that the record is spinning soundlessly and they are still standing, clinging to each other in the middle of his cold apartment.

She is aware of the icy clothes grasping onto her body and the chilly drip of her hair down her back and she is aware that he is warm and she is aware that she doesn’t like the breath of distance still between their foreheads.

She has to stand on her tiptoes when she kisses him.  His lips are warm like the rest of him, and she tangles her hand through his hair and he loops his arm further round her waist and she thinks that maybe she likes Elvis, too.


End file.
